The Lost Chapters
by Surg
Summary: Your father is dead. These words would shake anyone, but when Emily Matley, petty criminal, full-time mechanic, draws up a dead end from her associate in Liberty City, she just can't let it go, even though his legacy is one steeped in blood and violence.
1. Chapter 1

The Lost Chapters  
Part 1

_'But surely, Dr Moltolovich, the Russians could not hold the keys to the Omega Drive?'  
'Very much so, I'm afraid, Agent Brown. And the activation codes to the Delta Initiative.'  
'Good Lord! Not the codes that will allow the Illuminati to finally secure the Alpha Stone?'  
'No, you cretin. The codes that will allow my beloved mother Russia to defeat you puny Westerners! Die, capitalist pig!'  
'Have at you, you twice-defecting bastard!'  
'I'm a double-agent, you twat! Pay attention!'_

Someone says something indistinct over the tannoy. I don't pay any attention, either way. I was too absorbed in the dashing Agent Brown's daring struggle against a surprisingly athletic 80-year old neuroscientist wielding a phial of something on the business end of the Ph Scale.

It's only when I feel the weight shift off' the bench that I look up and listen. Again, the monotone drone:

'...City. Again, this is the last call for the six-oh-five to Liberty City, boarding at...'

Once again, Mister Archer, your engrossing, yet shitty prose has put me at odd with my schedule.

I swear before I can mind myself, flashing an apologetic smile at the mother sat opposite, already cradling the heads of her children in her hands. Hooking bags on my arms, slinging my backpack across my shoulders, I break into a dead run - not a great idea in boots, but needs must.

Strange, actually, that I didn't get stopped. Anyone rushing around a crowded airport with a backpack on would undoubtedly find themselves with a boot on their neck and the barrel of a gun between their eyes. Then again, with the momentum I was building, anyone who tried to stop me would've been flattened, cartoon-style under my squealing hard-rubber soles.

Flying past two armed guards poring over the contents of a Mexican mother of five's makeup bag, I found the automatic walkway leading to my gate and slowed. Three Liverpudlian tourists, with tan-lines like bicycle paths, were arguing with the check-in crew. Why were they going to Liberty City in the height of summer? Were all scousers secretly masochists? Possibly.

As carefully as I could, I waved my tickets at one attendant trying to restrain several hundred pounds of indignantly cursing cellulite, who politely dropped everything, annoying the cellulite further, took my stub and waved me in. Almost on auto-pilot, I wandered into economy, only for an attendant to carefully scoop me away from the familiar smell of recycled farts, sweat and boredom, towards hallowed ground. Business class.

'I think there's been a mist-'

I never noticed until then how flight attendants, the really good ones, came pre-packed with a handful of catch-all phrases. The 'Brandi' model I was currently with shook her head and said:

'On-board staff are always informed of every passenger's seat and requirements, sir/madam. Please, allow me to show you to your seat(s).'

A word to the wise, never fuck with someone who can pronounce brackets. She moved off on concealed greased bearings, taking my arm with her if I liked it or not. Guiding me to a bed that I later realised could also be a seat, I dumped my bags in the overhead when I heard a slight intake of breath - either a hiccup or someone trying not to sound as shocked as they are.

In the row next to me, some old guy in a silk suit all but crossed himself with rosary beads, popping a couple of capsules from a silver case and chasing it with a little Pepto-Bismol. It took me a second to catch on, then I shucked off my jacket, the dense black leather, worn soft through a lifetime of wear. Sitting cross legged on the bed, I closed the plastic partition around the cubicle and draped the jacket over it, the back facing him so through the whole journey he could read the patches:

The Lost

MC

Liberty City Chapter

With my back to the window, I opened up the paperback, found my place and continued my voyeuristic Commie-bashing escapades. Agent Brown was going to win - that much I knew, but I was more interested in the how.

The good guys always win.

I keep telling myself that.

-

I'd just like to make something clear. I'm a woman, a _femme_, and although an upbringing in a household full of brothers, uncles, cousins and bikers of all shapes and sizes has inured me to the majority of what a man can achieve, some things are just hard-wired into my mind to make me either run away screaming or beat the offender senseless with a length of cable.

But considering I couldn't run more than a few dozen feet, nor whip out said cable and deal out a good thrashing, I had to put up with it.

The old codger, topped up with half a dozen double whiskeys, was sprawled in his chair, snoring like a lumber mill, periodically farting as he wriggled around his seat. If you thought old people smelt funny on the outside, believe me, nothing prepares you for what lies beneath. He must've been unblocking gas pockets from the late 1960's.

To occupy myself, I opened up my notebook and re-read the note taped to the inside cover.

_Rebecca,_

There's no easy way to break this to you, but all the evidence points to what the police said. It's no bad thing to say against your father, I know, he was a good man, a good friend.

But you have to move on - no amount of cloak and dagger work is going to bring him back.

All I ask is that you walk away, right now. Don't contact me again.

Let him rest. God knows he earned it.

Best Wishes,

Ricky

Cheap, thin paper, stinking of motor oil and cigarette smoke, torn and frayed around all the corners at it was transferred from hand to hand, envelope and notebook. The eponymous Ricky, my window into the world my father disappeared into so long ago. No real names, no photographs, just words, taken as honest value.

Finding him was easy enough, the patches on my father's jacket and a brief trip into Google, a matter of hours. Penetrating the club's network of nicknames, contacts and trusted circles was much harder. I'd all but given up hope when I got a phone call at two in the morning. Ricky, asking who the fuck I was. I gave him my name, my full name, and he hung up.

Two minutes later, another call, a quick introduction, then he hung up again.

Then, the letters. If I kept him in beer, smokes and the odd Heart-Stopper, he'd scratch around and find where my dad was. Sure, it might've been a scam, but I was too desperate to care. But when he gave me the final answer, well, I couldn't just let it stop there.

So, that's why I'm here. On a 747 bound for Liberty City, breathing a 1/4 mix of methane and oxygen, praying that no-one realises my name isn't the one on the ticket. Or the passenger manifest.

Oh, Agent Brown, take me away from all this.


	2. Chapter 2

The Lost Chapters  
Part 2

'You want cab?'

I paused en-route to the taxi rank and looked around.

'Hey, you, lady. You want cab?'

The thick Turkish accent was coming from the recesses of a luxury black 4x4, the sort drug dealers favour, undoubtedly for the copious trunk. Maybe there was some specific model, the Hyundai Pusher, with armour plating and a roach clip instead of cup holders.

'You're a cab?'

The car sprouted a head, fat, dark, balding. He smiled and waved an arm towards the back, which unlocked with a resounding 'thunk'. Either this was normal for Liberty City, or this was the most inept kidnapping attempt in history.

'Yes, yes, Bellic Enterprise Taxis. See?'

He stuck out a neat little card rectangle between two fingers. Obliging him, I came closer and peered at the slightly smudged print. Sure enough, the legend was there. At this range, I could see inside, a sheltered, cool little hideaway from the blazing sun, the AC ticking away in time with the music on the radio. Compared with the stale-stench of what I'd already seen, a little luxury couldn't hurt.

'Alderny? Can you take me there?'

The driver eyed my jacket, licked his lips, then shook his head.

'Not a good place, lady. Dangerous.'

Fuck it.

I pulled out my wallet, thumbed out thirty dollars and threw them through the window. By the time he'd picked it all up, I was in the back, bags in the trunk, feet up on the passenger-side headrest. Call me pushy, but I was sweating my ass off out on the curb. He leant over to shout something at me, thought better of it, flapped his lips a few times, then finally shut up and gunned the engine.

Liberty City. What can you say?

Hot, very hot. Cramped, dirty, expensive and elite, all on one street corner. The ride lasted twenty minutes, and I counted three gun shots, five times we were cut up by cop cars, ambulances or cuntish drivers. I had to roll up the windows, the sensory overload was thumping through my skull like some hellish rave.

For once, I was grateful to see the approaching smog and industrial grind of Alderny Island. Sounds and smells I could drink in and remember. By now, the sun had slipped into the artificial cloud bank of pollution, smearing everything with a warm brown light. I hadn't slept over the whole flight and now my internal clock was running out of juice. I'd just stagger in, get a beer, pass out in a corner and hope no-one grabbed my tits as I slept.

Ah, I should be so lucky.

The clubhouse was just like in the picture. Just one huge fucking stone wall with a few windows and a blast door set into it, a fortress in all but name. As the car pulled away, I closed my eyes, expecting to have some revelation, some flashback to when my mother was wheeled out of here on a gurney, clutching that little pink blob that would grow up to be me, now coming full circle, back to this place.

But nothing.

Leaving my bags on the sidewalk, I climbed the steps and pressed my palms against the wood. Silence. I put it down to nerves. A strange English girl wandering into a bikie's hangout, wearing their patches? God knows what they'd make if that.

So, I pushed. It didn't budge.

I pushed again, harder, still nothing, I pushed with all I had left in me, slamming my shoulder against the rough wood and paint, flakes of it raining down on this furious spectacle. And still, it wouldn't give, not one inch.

Half-falling back down the steps, I looked again with fresh eyes and saw the signs I'd missed. The windows, blown out, the brickwork stained with black soot.

The door I'd thrown myself against until my knuckles bled, I now saw: The Lost MC.

Someone had spray-painted over the stencil.

STAY GONE FUCKERS

A.O.D.

Fuck fuck shitty cunt fuck arse cock bastard shitfucking fuck.


	3. Chapter 3

The Lost Chapters  
Part 3

I passed out against the door, my bags at my back, the jacket just enough to brace against the chill.

Often, people dream after a major emotional experience, it's their way of dealing with it unconsciously, picking through the debris of the day and sorting out the fact from the fiction. Why this often gets interpreted as either a desire to kill your father and fuck your mother is a mystery, probably telling more about the psychiatrist than the patient.

Myself, I simply blacked out, like someone threw a kill-switch at the back of my conscious mind.

-

'Check this shit out...'

'Oh, no, you're not-oh fuck! Ah, ha! Aw shit, that's right! Yeah!'

My left eye was a ball of pain. Something acrid and foul-smelling had hit me in the face, wet and hot, it trickled down my chin, threatening to creep into my mouth and nose if I tried to breathe.

With my one good eye, I saw a blurry outline above me, no, make that several. Tall, wide, men.

Then it hit me. The fucker was pissing in my face.

My fucking face.

Without making a sound, I brought one foot up as far as I could at a straight arc. The jet quickly changed course, wobbling all over as the water sports enthusiast jumped back to the laughs and cheers of the others.

It took all I had not to throw up. The pain in my eye and the stink was so bad I could feel bile eating away at my back teeth. I wanted to breathe, but my face was soaked, and the prospect of getting any in my mouth only made me want to chuke more. By the time I was on my feet, I realised someone was shouting something.

Clawing at my face and eyes, I spat on the ground and shook my head.

'The fuck?'

I got the other eye back online and managed to focus. The pisser wasn't the one in front of me now - he was behind a couple of others, his jeans spattered with his own piss, tucking himself away amidst the laughter.

'I thought you'd be used to it by now, girl.' The one in front of me grinned. His front four teeth were missing, with scabbed, fat lips surrounded by a thick, mangy beard. 'You're a long ways from Vice City. Got lost, did ya?'

The lackeys laughed at the godawful pun. Clearly, this wasn't territory used to the finer points of irony.

'Fuck off.' I managed, trying to at least sound vaguely threatening. I could see Toothy's patch on his collar - the Angels Of Death skull. I'd thought if I was on Lost territory, I'd be safe wearing the colours, but clearly, I'd missed that by a nautical fucking mile.

Toothy cocked an eyebrow. In a moment of vague horror, I realised there was half a slice of gherkin, the kind you get in cheap burgers, nestled in his bristly brow. I was all for the natural look, a bit of rough looked good on a guy, but this was a too much. Even a tramp would walk away after five minutes around the guy feeling like they needed a wash.

'You've got some guts for a piece of cunt stinking of piss,' he sneered, pushing a thick finger into my shoulder, shunting me back with more muscle than I expected off' his chubby frame, 'you want we should teach you some fucking manners?'

Oh God. I wasn't sure what teaching me a lesson was going to involve, but a dozen leery bikers against one semi-conscious woman wasn't good odds however you played it.

What was it you were supposed to shout? You never shout rape if you're being raped - people don't come. You've got to scream 'Fire!'. God knows why. Maybe people just like a show out of their public atrocities. Maybe that girl who got stabbed in Boston wasn't helped because she wasn't singing a little jazz ditty as she bled out on the sidewalk.

It was a stupid idea, but I didn't have much else to go on, other than run, which wouldn't be any good if these guys had bikes, which they almost certainly did.

'How about I teach the Golden Wonder over there some fucking manners?' Again, heavy on the menace. I'm tough. I'm a little crazy. I'll snatch your eyes out and skullfuck you on the way down. Yeah. God, please let him buy it.

Toothy actually laughed, shrugged and waved an arm at Golden Boy, who was mugging like a cunt, hands against his chest in a 'Who, me?' pose. After a moment of cajoling, they formed a little semi-circle around us. Golden Boy whipped off his jacket and puckered his lips at me with a wink. He probably thought he looked rogueish. Personally, he looked like he'd just had a mild stroke.

Forcing your body to do something it doesn't want to do can be hard. You've got to mentally or physically override the basic urges your body has. As he danced towards me, his hands half-balled, undecided as to whether he should slug me or slap me, I felt it come and bit down hard on my tongue to keep it in for a few seconds longer.

I could see him take the step forward, shoulder rolling back - he was going to drill me right between the fucking eyes. What a gent.

Without hesitating, I darted forward, grabbed his shirt with both hands and kissed him, hard on the mouth.

For a split second, everyone was silent, probably as confused as Golden Boy was. Was I some psycho slut? Did I like getting slapped about? You could've heard their scraggly little minds running overtime, working out positions and orders for each orifice.

Then, I really did chuke.

It was beautiful, and I really do mean that. Up close, I could see all those little, frantic emotions run across his face. Surprise, shock, horror, disgust, panic, then finally anger, he forced me back, almost throwing me off my feet as I coughed up more bile, spitting and gasping for breath.

Still, they didn't move. I didn't think it was possible to shock hardened, scabby bastard such as these, but clearly barf-smooching had not only passed the bar but set it somewhere in the rafters.

As he fell, gagging, to one knee, trying to bring up the mouthful of barf I'd force-fed him, I charged, determined to at the very least send him to the hospital before the others ripped me in half.

The first blow caught him in the neck, just a baby tap, given my state, I could hardly focus on him, let alone get any weight behind the punch. Still, it gave me enough time to swing another, some reserves of energy getting in line, this time scoring one right on the ear. Still, hardly a knockout punch.

I gave it one more try, winding all the way back like a cartoon dog lining the sneaky cat up for a haymaker, then brought it down right on the back of his head. It was much louder than I expected, really loud - for a moment, I thought I'd fractured his skull.

Then I heard another, exactly the same and worked it out.

Gunfire.

Oh fuck.


	4. Chapter 4

The Lost Chapters  
Part 4

Many people don't recognise gunfire when they first hear it. Movies and TV make us think all guns fire with a sort of 'BA-WHUMPH' sound, so when the genuine crackle or pop of small arms fire rears its head, most people but it down to a car backfiring.

This, on the other hand, was definitely gunfire, full-blooded, fully-automatic, balls out, manly overkill from every direction.

Instinct threw me flat on the tarmac, right next to Golden Boy, who was dragging something from the back of his pants. I crawled towards my bags, still by the clubhouse, but a stray salvo of bullets chewed up the sidewalk inches from my outflung arms. Snatching them back, I got up into a sitting position, scanning for any gap I could bolt through.

I don't know why, but I hadn't even begun to wonder why everyone had started shooting, much less at who. The A.O.D. were all blasting in one direction with stubby sawn-off shotguns or revolvers, ducking and diving like crazy towards any scrap of cover they could find. The opportunity came, I went for it.

Running on legs as weak as spaghetti, I threw myself forward. After an hour, I'd just about cleared the median strip. This was fucking ridiculous.

Everything felt like it was wadded with cotton wool - thick, muted, distant. My heartbeat was just a dull, slow bass note in my chest, it felt like the blood in my veins was crawling to a standstill.

I never saw Golden Boy coming. All of a sudden, I was off my feet, the collar of my shirt tight against my windpipe, the stink of piss and vomit making a strong comeback against my haggard senses.

When the cold steel of the gun barrel settled itself against my neck, all that drained away. My adrenal glands mercifully decided to do some fucking work and pump me full of fight-or-flight. Vision ricochet'd between long and short distance as I tried to swivel my eyeballs around in my sockets to see what the fuck was going on.

'Back the fuck off! Back off!'

No need to be so loud. I'm right next to you.

'Drop the gun.'

Coma calm. Distant, but carried the full length of the street.

Then, Golden Boy made the last mistake of his life. He took the gun from my neck and aimed at the figure that had managed to kill eight well-armed men seemingly without a scratch. You had to applaud the guts of the boy. Even if the guts of his comrades were currently slipping into a storm drain by the curb.

The bullet just about turned Golden Boy's head inside-out. At such a close range, I actually heard the little 'Schlop' of his warm squishy parts meeting air for the first and last time. Something wet with hair on it lodged in my right ear - blood caked my face and neck. All in all, pretty much the second most horrible thing I'd experienced that morning.

In a daze, I fished the offending item, it was a bit of scalp, by the way, from my ear and dropped it on Golden Boy's sprawled corpse.

'Are you hurt?'

'What, aside from being pissed on, threatened with pack rape, forced to use vomit in a tactical manner and being held hostage by a currently headless biker? I'm fucking fantastic.'

Perhaps sarcasm wasn't the best idea overall, but it's the default setting of most Brits when the shit hits the fan. In this case, it worked. The gun slipped back into the recesses of his coat, leather like my own. He lifted my chin with his hand to get a good look at me.

He was white, pale, what I could see of him, anyway. Most of his face was masked by a bandana from the bridge of the nose down, with reflective sunglasses shielding his eyes. They dipped, giving me a glimpse of hazel, before slipping back into place.

'Sarcasm. Good. Do you need a ride?'

I looked around, trying not to laugh. I could hardly walk, and hanging around a bunch of corpses probably wasn't going to ride well with the LCPD. I nodded.

'Okay. Get your shit together.'

He whipped a heavy-duty bin liner out of his pocket, snapped it open like a matador's cape and handed it to me.

'Guns and wallets. Get them together, put them in the bag. I'll bring my car round.'

With that, he span on his heel and walked away. I just stood there, dumbstruck. At the moment, I was just a harmless victim in a gangland shootout. Now I was being asked to add Aiding & Abetting to a growing charge sheet. He must've sensed it, because he waved an arm over his shoulder and called out:

'You've got two minutes before either the cops or more Angels Of Death show up. What d'you think your chances are going to be with them?'

The legal system be damned. I chose life.

The guns, cash and a few tin foil rolls of hash and meth disappeared into the bag. I even had enough time to fish a wet-wipe from by bag and wipe the blood, piss and puke from my face properly. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop shaking. I couldn't.

'First time?'

Jesus Christ - the car was quiet. A low-slung muscle car like the one he was driving should've made my eyes rattle at it pulled up, but it hardly made anything more than a purr as it idled.

'Everyone gets the shakes. I'll drop you off at a motel. Get some food and rest.'

'Who...who are you?' Was all I could manage.

He paused, shaking his head. 'You've got another minute before the cops show up. If we manage to get out of here without getting busted or greased, then maybe we'll sit down and swap business cards over a nice cup of coffee. Right now, we've got to ghost.'

Fuck it. I was sold.

Bags in the trunk, myself in the back seat, laid two metres of rubber heading North, the sirens never growing past a distant whine.

The fuck was up with this country? I'm here for half a day and suddenly I'm stuck in the middle of a cheesy action movie, running from the cops with a mass murderer in the front seat and a shitload of guns, cash and drugs in the boot.

Daddy would be so proud.


	5. Chapter 5

The Lost Chapters  
Part 5

The Motel turned out to be a 6, but I was grateful for a bed that wasn't concrete. After I paid for the room, I found him rifling through the trash bag. The drugs he collected in his hands and upended into a drain. He caught my surprise - rightly so. He'd just ditched what looked to me like a few grand's worth of Grade-A narcotics without batting an eyelid.

'Just the money and guns. Drugs are always a pain in the ass.'

He pulled away his bandana and sunglasses and smiled. He had a lot of small scars, all over his face, cutting up his eyebrows and lips with little nicks and cuts. Still, it was a little charismatic - for a disfiguring facial wound, he carried it well.

'Plus, it keeps the cops off' my back. A few gang-bangers get killed, no problem, but if a few k's of heroin resurface after I hit a dealer?' He waved his hands. 'Ooh, do they ever get pissed.'

I found myself cracking a smile of my own. Mass murderer, thief and mutilated though he may be, you couldn't help but like the bastard.

I took my bags up to my room. Not much point in unpacking, I'd only paid for the night. Sitting back on the bed, trying to avoid thinking about the smell the sheets were giving off, I tried to break the ice.

'Thanks. For back there.'

'Don't,' he shook his head, 'I'd been trailing them all day. I was going to jump them tonight, but when they started on you, I couldn't wait.'

He gestured to my jacket.

'Not a smart move, wearing that around here. Not any more.'

I could begin to imagine, what with the clubhouse, but I was still missing most of the jigsaw.

'There was a lot of shit about a month ago. The Liberty City Chapter pretty much collapsed on itself. Politics, that sort of thing. Now the A.O.D. have just about locked down the whole city, apart from the Uptown Riders, but that's not saying much.' He left a beat, then, '...you're not Lost. Not full chat, anyway.'

'I flew in this morning. From England.' I explained. He didn't need to know everything.

He just nodded, then looked closer at me. 'You're not into anything serious, maybe boosting...not drugs. Let me guess - you work for a motor shop with a sideline in custom parts, right?'

Motherfucker.

'How the hell did you know that?'

'It's a gift. I can read people pretty well. Plus, you look like a girl who wasn't into all the pink stuff as a kid. Your dad take you to his workshop on weekends?'

I flinched - immediately, he pulled it back.

'Ah. Okay.' Smoothly switching to another track, he offered his hand. 'We didn't get introduced. It's Scott.'

I just waved a hand. Not spiteful, but I didn't feel like touching. Bad memories can do that to you - just make you want to curl up.

'Emily.'

Tucking the hand back in his pocket, Scott nodded. 'Okay. Well, Emily, I'm going to keep an eye on you for today, in case any A.O.D. brothers try and get some payback. You won't see me, you won't have to talk to me again. But you go straight to the airport, get on a plane and fly back home. This isn't a good place for a girl on her own with affiliations like the ones you've got.'

'No!' Didn't mean to shout it. 'No. I can't go back yet.'

'...looking for family?'

That was it. The fucker was reading my bloody mind.

'Just go away! I mean, thanks, really, but leave me alone! I don't need protecting!'

Someone in the room next door thumped on the wall. Without thinking I thumped it in reply, then got up and gestured to the door.

'Go. Please.'

'Okay.' Scott slipped his sunglasses back on and stepped outside. He put his hands on the railing, looking out across the cityscape. 'If you need-'

I slammed the door.

The next few hours were devoted to damage control. Shower, check for cuts and bruises, change into fresh clothes, sort hair. The clubhouse had fucked everything sideways - and now the other gang in town was out for my guts. The jacket went in a bag. After a little thought, I switched my top for something tight and cropped. Try not to look like a biker girl.

By the time I was finished, my stomach was grumbling about the treatment it had gone through. One quick phone call to a pizza place and it decided to call it quits.

TV reception was worse than what I was used to, but still serviceable. The news was all over the shooting - 'Latest Alderny Bloodbath' probably said more about the area than my luck in particular. There were no names, but plenty of gory crime scene photographs. When the anchorman warned that 'Some viewers may find the following images distressing.' I laughed through a mouthful of crust and Texas BBQ sauce.

Distressing? I'd show them fucking distressing. Try wearing two different kinds of someone else's bodily fluids in a ten-minute period, then come and ask me about distressing. Christ.

The rest of the day just crawled by. I couldn't think of what to do next. Cops were out of the question, so was trawling the bars, I'd just get more A.O.D. attention. And I'd just turfed out the one person I'd come across that had given a fuck about me, even if he was some gun-toting vigilante Scarface tribute act.

Way to go, Emily. Good to see those Critical Thinking classes paid off. Fuck.

Night came and went as unobtrusively as a considerate date-rapist, only without the funny aftertaste in the morning. By the time I got up, it was 11AM, a few hours shy of when I'd wanted to get up, get proactive, get motivated.

Bollocks.

It was getting close to 2PM by the time I got out of bed. Mainly because I'd run out of leftover pizza. I clomped down to the reception desk and asked when I was due to check out. The guy behind the desk had me registered and fully paid for two weeks. I damn near shat myself in surprise.

Then, he goes and pulls out a brown paper back from under the counter, neatly sealed with scotch tape. He explained that the guy who'd paid for the room left it for me. Grabbing a can of Coke from the machine, I ran up to my room like it was Christmas with a suspicious relative.

Carefully, I tore away the taped top and opened it up.

About $2,000 in mixed notes wrapped with a rubber band, a piece of paper with a landline and a mobile number on it and, inside a roll of chamois leather, a Glock 17 with a zip-lock baggie of 9mm rounds.

Scott - you're a true fucking gent.


	6. Chapter 6

The Lost Chapters  
Part 6

Where do you start looking when you don't know what you're looking for?

Okay, tell a lie, I know what I'm looking for, but what with the clubhouse being a hands-down washout, where else can you go? Bars are out of the question, considering they'd all have at least a minor A.O.D. presence, so asking around there about ex-Lost bikies would be suicide.

The census office would be a decent idea, if I wasn't in the country illegally, and my dad was probably under the radar himself.

I was nowhere near connected enough to try and get some info out of the LCPD, even if they were the most incompetent police force in the country. Plus, I'd heard horror stories about what happened to people who thought you could screw with crooked cops. They screwed you right back with a 25-to-life.

That left the final option - get in on the ground level.

By majority vote, with my ego screaming blue murder in a corner, I stashed the gun and ammo down the back of the mini-bar in the ice box. I'd never fired a gun in my life, and having one and not knowing how to use it was ten times worse than not having one and knowing how to use it. And in any case, my clothes hardly have room to hide it, short of stuffing it down the front of my trousers, which would probably give a lot of people the wrong idea.

The cash went in my pocket, most if it, anyway. I left about $500 in my bag as an emergency stash, then locked the door and trotted back down to reception.

'Are there any mechanics around here? Workshops, you know.'

The old boy looked me up and down, to his credit he didn't leer, then slid a phone directory across the counter.

'Every Axle's in Liberty. Under services.'

'I was thinking more...independent.'

Better than a Mason, this guy was. You can keep your wiggly handshakes - all you need is eye contact and intonation.

'There's a place down by the docks in Bohan. Guantanamo Avenue.'

I couldn't be bothered with a cab, so I decided to walk. Note to self: Never do that again. The sidewalks were choked with crazies, executives, hot dog vendors and crazy executive hot dog vendors. The streets were bumper-to-bumper snakes of metal and smog and blaring music. I wasn't claustrophobic, but fighting my way through seven streams of human traffic at once was putting me in a dark frame of mind.

By the time I got to Bohan, I was one more 'Nice Ass!' away from biting someone's nose off.

Guanyanamo Avenue wasn't much, just a tight side-alley running parallel between a warehouse and a half-finished bridge. The workshop itself was one of the arches beneath the bridge - the only one not derelict or full of junked cars. An unseen radio blared RockN'Roll, amplified by the echo, interrupted by the squeal of a gas axe cutting through metal.

Not one for formal arrivals, I found the radio and dropped the volume. A few heartbeats, then a figure emerges from underneath a wrecked car. Scratch that, a wrecked car and a bike - the latter having hit the car so hard it had almost fused to the bodywork.

'The fuck are you?'

He was just about my height, maybe an inch or two more, wiry and smothered in grime and grease. A welder's mask that'd obscured his face was snapped up, revealing pinched, gaunt features. The gas axe hung loose in his hand - even if it wasn't on, it was still a hot lump of metal that would ruin anyone's day.

'I heard this was a good place to look for work.' I clamped my voice to an even level - try not to play up the accent too much.

'Does this look like an employment agency?' He waved an arm at the scrap. 'I cut fucked-up bikes from fatal crashes. I don't need a secretary.'

'Neither do I. I'm a lousy typer. But I think you need parts, right?'

'...you a cop? I know my rights - you've gotta say.'

I sighed, but took it in good humor. 'Yeah, Scotland Yard. You're under arrest for being a greasy, thick-headed wrench jockey.' I caught another look at the wreck behind him. 'And unless you want to blow yourself up, I'd stop using the gas axe. That Lycan's got the custom dual-input system, if you hit that with the torch, you'll light it up like a Christmas tree.'

For a moment, I didn't know if he was going to laugh or wallop me. Lucky for me, he went with the first option.

'Okay, smart-mouth.' He fished around in his overalls and pulled out a notebook. Consulting a few pages, he began writing down models of bikes, some vanilla, some with modifications added in brackets. In all, he put down five, two vanilla, two lightly modded, one heavily, on a chalkboard.

'If you want a job, you work for me. Exclusively. You don't get paid up-front, you get a cut of each sale I make, say, fifteen percent. I've got a lot of turnover, but the only hard part is getting the shit I need that I can't touch. I expect all five by the end of the week.'

Digest it all, remember it all.

'You can talk with my boy - he's all up with those computers, he'll run through the police database and find the bikes. You just find 'em, boost 'em and deliver 'em. Got it?'

'Got it.' Database? Fucking jackpot.

'Good. Any problems, you call me. I'm Gus. My boy's Sale.'

'Pleased to-

Gus shook his head, then flipped the mask back down. 'If you ain't dead within a week, then you can tell me your name. Go see my boy.'

As I walked around the back, I saw the little makeshift office, wired into the overhead current and phone lines. The door was half-open, more music, hard, screaming, very metal. Against all common sense, I knocked, then realised if anyone was in there, they wouldn't hear anything short of a hand grenade going off inside their own head.

Risking a few steps inside, when the door swung to, it took my eyes a few seconds to refocus to the gloom, the only light sources coming from a shuttered window and the light of the computer monitors filling half of one wall. Even as a self-confessed no-hoper in terms of computing, my jaw was in the unlocked and impressed position. Three banks were displaying schematics for various bikes, one was dedicated to the music player, another to an open browser and one for minesweeper.

At the nexus of it all was the stubby silhouette of who I could only assume was Sale. I tapped him on the shoulder - at this range, the noise was a physical force, no point in shouting.

He hit a key and suddenly the noise vanished. I felt my eardrums gratefully return to their normal shape. Another key brought up the blinds, filling the space with light.

I'd been expecting the poster boy for too much bandwidth and not enough exercise, scraggly, unhealthy, pale, and in all but one aspect, I wasn't disappointed. His hair and beard were fighting for supremacy in the 'best glued-on-ferret impression' and he was definitely unhealthy, possessing a body sculpted by energy drinks and ergonomic furniture, but he was clearly, as my mother would have put it, 'of mixed parentage'.

His lips moved.

I blinked and wiggled a finger in one ear until feeling came back.

'Sorry, what?'

'I said, can I help you?'

'Yeah. You're Sale, right?'

He smirked, 'you're an observant one. Pop take on some new help, huh? Give you the whole no name speech?'

I nodded.

'Didn't you wonder why?'

I was starting to get the picture. 'Something tell me it's not because I get medical comp.'

'True. But the main reason is he likes to rip the A.O.D. for the parts whenever he can, and they don't like that one little bit.'

I opened and shut my mouth, feeling the slow, cold, creeping dread fill me.

Oh...fucksticks.


	7. Chapter 7

The Lost Chapters  
Part 7

'Dude, easy.' Sale snapped his fingers in front of my face, breaking my silent reverie. 'I've got your back on this - you won't need to go in guns blazing or anything. You won't even need to go near the A.O.D. apart from for the really high-end stuff.'

'I-I'm not sure if I made the right choice...' I began.

'What are you talking about? This is one of the sweetest boosting jobs in the city - only a few bikes a week, and you get a cut out of all the sales. Okay, you may get shot, stabbed, burned or blown up, but it's only an outside chance.'

'I don't need the fucking money!' Hold it - reel in the temper. 'I'm looking for someone, I thought this'd be a good place to start.'

Sale looked me dead in the eye for a few moments, his fingers gently caressing the keyboard. Eventually, he hit a few keys, bringing up five side-profile shots of bikes. Three of them he highlighted in red and shrunk, bringing the other three to the foreground.

'You'll start with these first. One's in the police impound up in Broker, the other two are privately owned - no gang affiliations.'

A printer started hissing and clattering in the mess of hardware.

'Who?'

I wasn't ready for the jumping between topics. Opening up both mental gears in case he jumped ship again, I gave him the short truth. 'I'm looking for my dad. He's...was with the Lost.'

The printer finished, Sale tearing the paper from the machine by the edges, neatly slipping it into my hands.

'Name, Address, Make, Rap Sheet if they've got one, Job, the whole nine yards. The Hellfury's behind a keypad lock - the code's there too.'

Wait for it...

'You know about what happened with the Liberty Chapter?'

Smooth. 'I got a pretty formal introduction. I just want to find him. That's all.' I folded up the paper and stuffed it in my pocket. 'Thanks.'

'Don't mention it.'

As I left, he called out to me, 'You know - Gus may not wanna know your name, but I'm still curious.'

'Ask me in a week, slim.'

-

A word to the uninitiated, there are two mindsets for boosting, the hyped-up, adrenaline fuelled smash and grab mindset and the slow, cool, careful mindset.

Okay, there was a third one, which I was going through. The desperately trying not to make any noise as your entire body seems to be making twenty times as much noise as it should mindset.

I was going for the Hellfury, the one in the North Alderny suburbs with all the security. Well, it was a fence and a keypad, hardly Alcatraz. I was wearing a pair of surgical gloves, so prints weren't an issue, but I didn't pack much black stuff that wasn't leather, so I had to make do with some jeans and a grey t-shirt I'd packed. I always preferred black when I was boosting professionally, made me feel like a real thief.

The keypad was a cinch, the fence rolled back automatically, for a moment my heart leapt into my mouth, it was loud as fuck, clattering to a halt, but not a hint of life from the house.

It was a sexy beast, I had to admit, dark burgundy paint job, polished chrome all over the place, but none of the tassels or stupid little extras that the average rich cunt would stick on a perfectly good bike. I could almost taste it - the feeling of thrumming full-blooded horsepower between my legs.

Some girls had their first 'experiences' at pony club. Mine was at an easy one-fifty down the M4 on a Suzuki Hayabusa. Stuff like that leaves an impression.

Wrangling the ignition with a skeleton key Sale had loaned me, I deactivated the hard brakes, popped the kickstand and wheeled it out into the street. Sneaking a look behind me, still nothing from the house. Fucking slick.

'Hey! Hey! Drop the damn bike!'

I froze. The hell was that?

I looked around and saw, a little old lady, had to be pushing her late 80's, pink dressing gown and curlers in her hair. In fact, the only non-concession to stereotype was the hand cannon tucked into her sash, a massive high-calibre revolver.

What was with this country? Did you get a free gun with each hip replacement or something?

'Drop the bike, missy, or I'll drop your ass.'

Ooooh...shit...

'Okay, okay. Easy.'

I popped out the kickstand. All of a sudden, I was staring down the barrel of the gun.

'It was the fucking kickstand! Jesus! Calm the hell down!' I tried to shout as quietly as I could. I had to talk her down - if she fired that thing, the police in Mexico would hear it.

'Don't use that tone with me, little miss! Get on the floor before I blow your kneecaps off!'

My god. Dementia and heavy firepower - what a sublime mix. I got down on one knee, my eyes darting from the gun to her expression of almost incandescent rage. The gun was shaking like crazy.

I felt the adrenaline roll up my spine like an old friend. With my back foot, I kicked forward, launching myself laterally at her, trying to swat the gun away with one hand. Oh God, please don't break anything.

The cannon went off like a thunderbolt, the echo kept rippling through the air around us. Within seconds, lights were blinking on all around.

Underneath me, the geriatric gunslinger was screaming bloody murder, trying to grab something inside her robe. I didn't know what she was going for, for all I knew it could have been her heart medication or a hand grenade. I just got on my feet and ran to the bike, gutted the engine and peeled out South.

From then on, it was a blur - the lights just streamed into a dream state, sound ebbed away until I was just gliding in a void, navigating through instinct.

It took about an hour to get back to the workshop. No-one was up, so I parked it around the back, draped a tarp over it and headed back out to the street. At this time of night, the only traffic was taxis and pimps and curb crawlers. I flagged one down, a taxi, not a pimp or a curb crawler and got in the back.

'Hospital?'

'What?'

'Dude, you need to go to the hospital.'

I checked myself, I seemed fine.

Oh no.

I patted myself down, then realised I'd left little red spots all down my right hand side. I looked at my hand. Half my ring finger was missing. There was just a partially charred, bloody stump at the end of the second knuckle.

'Just drop me at an all-night pharmacy.'

Great...


End file.
